


a better method of pretending

by NotAllThoseWhoWander



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 08:13:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1183962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotAllThoseWhoWander/pseuds/NotAllThoseWhoWander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, it's easier to just pretend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a better method of pretending

**Author's Note:**

> it's getting kind of late here and i'm tired and stressed and i needed to write something weird and sad, so here goes!

 

 

It's an accident, really. A farce. 

They collide after-hours one evening at the Musain, a snowy night when there is no Society meeting and they've both lost their purpose momentarily. Combeferre is carrying a medical textbook, on loan from the Necker's library, and Grantaire is cradling a bottle of wine. Later, they remember a conversation - a map of France tacked to the wall, not their back-room Republic France but France as it is now, France corrupted - Grantaire offering wine, Combeferre refusing - the Musain's door at their backs, a snowy walk home.

Combeferre speaks in earnest tones about the future, and Grantaire does his best to listen closely, humoring Combeferre, pretending that those honeyed words ( _Patria, Patria, barricades, bullets_ ) are rounded by the lips of another man. Combeferre paces and gesticulates, pretending that Grantaire is not dark and cynical and that it's with rapture that he listens to Combeferre's speech and not feigned interest.  _  
_

It's late, then, and they both know what is going to happen, and Combeferre offer to let Grantaire share his bed for the night - a thoughtful gesture, between friends - and then the candles are burning low in their iron brackets and Grantaire's hands are on Combeferre's chest and stomach, pushing his shirt up, unbuttoning his vest. Combeferre thinks briefly, fleetingly and strangely, of saying _no_ , or  _you forget yourself_ , but closes his eyes and leans into the touch. 

Grantaire's hands are solid and warm and it seems that only an instant passes before they are both divested of shirts and vests, and Grantaire's weight is solid on Combeferre's front and they're both desperately hard.

"Yes," Grantaire breathes when Combeferre's hand slides into his pants. Buttons and laces are worked loose, and they slide against each other, and Grantaire makes a low keening sound in the back of his throat. If Combeferre closes his eyes - or, really, squints a little - Grantaire is a blur of curly hair and aqualine nose, and he can pretend that Grantaire's hair is lighter and his hands made for gesturing in the passion of oration, not made for paintbrushes and charcoal, but it doesn't matter when they're touching each other like this, in the darkness everything looks the same.

Grantaire comes first, crying out, and Combeferre is pushed over the edge, gasping into the damp skin of Grantaire's neck. He holds Grantaire's trembling body to his own, both of them breathless, the fingers of Grantaire's right hand tangled in Combeferre's own.

________

When Grantaire says  _yes_ he means  _please don't stop, please let me pretend_. And Combeferre does. It occurs to Grantaire that they both know exactly what they're doing, and it makes him a little sad.

He lets himself ease onto the bed, grind against Combeferre, and lets himself touch Combeferre. Skin and bones, it's all the same, really, even if this isn't how it's  _supposed to be_ , it's happening and he accepts that. And Combeferre moans when Grantaire runs a hand down his stomach, dipping lower, and arches up into Grantaire's hand. 

Grantaire abandons himself when Combeferre thrusts a hand into the front of his pants; he closes his eyes and shifts his hips and imagines that it's another hand on his slick cock, that he's biting down on another shoulder. He feels himself close to the edge and fumbles in Combeferre's pants, pulling them open, touching Combeferre and feeling hot with guilt - the rush of shame is so familiar now, but he can't help the way he moans - and Combeferre gasps and shudders. 

He makes a valiant effort to pull himsef away from the edge but falls too soon; it's white-hot pleasure, writhing, stuttering thrusts. He mouths a silent, desperate name again Combeferre's neck, and is aware that his own hand is moving quickly and erratically on Combeferre and then Combeferre comes, hard, moaning low and warm in Grantaire's ear. 

Then they're both breathless and warm with guilt and shame. Grantaire puts his head on Combeferre's chest and listens to another man's heartbeat. Combeferre runs his fingers through Grantaire's hair, eyes closed, seeing a fair, tangled halo. 

Combeferre says something, quietly, and Grantaire doesn't hear but he thinks it's  _it's all alright_ , and that makes him quietly and desperately sad, but the hammer of someone else's heartbeat eats up your whole world. _  
_

It's an illusion, but it's beautiful and pure and terrible, and it chases away the dark.


End file.
